by Irwin Shaw
“She’s in great form these days, Leslie,” Solomon said, “isn’t she?”
“Great.” Solomon might be an astute judge of talent but as a barometer of the ups and downs of female weather he was hardly reliable. Strand remembered Leslie’s guess that Hazen and Nellie Solomon were lovers and he wondered if Solomon was any better at measuring his wife’s emotional level than he was of Leslie’s.
Although Leslie was putting up a brave front Strand had the uneasy feeling that her show of good spirits was the result of politeness rather than an indication of any real change in her mood. He was not the only one to sense this. Jimmy, who had driven Nellie Solomon into the village to do some shopping at the drugstore, had gotten Strand aside when he returned to quiz him about Leslie. “Is Mom okay?” he asked. He looked worried.
“Of course,” Strand said, sharply. “Why do you ask?”
“Something Mrs. Solomon said in the car. She said when Mom didn’t realize anybody was watching her, she looked—melancholy was the word she used. And when she talked to people she seemed distant, as though she was behind some kind of curtain, Nellie said.”
“Have you noticed anything?”
“I’m a dope,” Jimmy said. “Mom always seems the same to me, except when she’s bawling me out about something. And she hasn’t bawled me out even once this weekend.” He grinned. “Maybe that’s a bad sign.”
“If you have any more private conversations with the lady,” Strand said, angered at the accuracy of Nellie Solomon’s observation, “tell her your mother couldn’t be better.”
Jimmy looked at him curiously and Strand knew that he had been too vehement in his reassurance. “Will do,” Jimmy said and dropped the subject. Another curtain in the family, Strand thought. Between my son and myself.
Somehow, throughout the rest of the weekend, there had never seemed to be a proper moment for telling Leslie about the conversation with Babcock. And so far Leslie had not volunteered any comments about her lunch in New York with Hazen. The curtain Mrs. Solomon had spoken about had dropped long before Thanksgiving.
They reached Dunberry late. There had been heavy traffic, people going home from the holiday to be ready for work on Monday morning. They had dropped Linda off at her apartment near Hazen’s house on the East Side, because she was late for a supper she had promised to go to. Jimmy had said good night and had gone off on a date. The Solomons had driven to the city in their own car. Hazen had insisted that Leslie and Strand come up to his apartment for a bite to eat. He had called from the beach and had the butler leave some food on the sideboard in the dining room. It had been a pleasant and easy meal, cold chicken and salad and a bottle of white wine. Hazen had sent Conroy home but had ordered a limousine to take the Strands to Dunberry. Strand had protested at the extravagance, and as usual Hazen had waved away his protests.
“It was a wonderful holiday, Russell,” Leslie said as she kissed Hazen good-bye at the door. “I feel like a new woman.”
“We must do it again,” Hazen said. “Maybe a whole week or ten days, even, at Christmas, if I can make the time. Try to get the kids down there, too. They make that wreck of a house feel young again.”
In the back seat of the limousine, Leslie put her head on Strand’s shoulder and dropped off to sleep. If he had been going anyplace but back to Dunberry he would have felt completely at peace. With Leslie’s soft breathing so close to him and the uneventful but happy four days behind them he felt that he could honestly go to Babcock and tell him that he thought that Leslie’s crisis, whatever its causes, had passed, that she could be depended upon to perform her duties at the school in a normal fashion and that it wouldn’t be necessary for her to apply for sick leave. He told himself that, while Mrs. Solomon had made a shrewd guess about Leslie, she had exaggerated her estimate of Leslie’s vagueness and occasional small fugues out of all proportion. But he knew that his thinking in part was influenced by selfishness. The thought of being without her for weeks or even months was dismaying.
He felt Leslie stir at his side and lift her hand from his shoulder. “Are we there yet?” She sounded like a sleepy child.
“Nearly.”
“What a nice vacation. Never-never land, Long Island, Zip Code 119 something.” She laughed softly. “I could spend the rest of my life there. Just painting and looking at the ocean and not thinking about anything, surrounded by those nice, rich, generous people.” She laughed again. “Would you be bored?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “I might take up golf. Or basket weaving.”
“It was good of Russell to start making plans already about our coming out for Christmas. With the whole family.” She sat up suddenly. “Why do you think Caroline said on the phone that she’d never come to the Hamptons again?”
“She said something about boys…” Strand purposely made it sound vague. He hoped that Leslie would never find out exactly what that meant. Better to let her wonder than have her know about Caroline’s struggle in the car and the near rape and the brutal fist. “Maybe she’s found some young man in Arizona and her interests lie in another direction now.” His words sounded to him as though he was speaking through cotton wool.
“I’m going to write her a good strong letter,” Leslie said. “She knows we wouldn’t go without her on her vacation and it’s selfish of her to ruin it for all of us for some foolish little whim.”
“I’m sure she’ll see the light and come around,” Strand lied.
When the car drew up in front of the Malson house Strand saw that there was a light at the window of one of the bedrooms on the second floor. It was past ten thirty and all lights were supposed to be out but it was likely that some of the boys had gathered to swap stories about the weekend. He got out of the car and started toward the house, the chauffeur following with their bags. Just as he reached the door it swung open violently and a boy, barefooted and in pajamas, ran out, nearly knocking him over. Before he could move, another boy burst out of the door in pursuit. This one Strand could recognize. It was Romero, dressed in jeans and a sweater. Neither of the boys made a sound. By the light of the front door lamp, Strand saw that Romero had a knife in his hand.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop right where you are.”
“Oh, my God,” Leslie cried.
Neither of the boys stopped. The first boy, much larger than Romero, dodged behind a tree, cut off to the right. Romero, running swiftly, soundlessly, caught up to him and jumped on his back and they both twisted and fell to the ground. Now Romero was on top, sitting on the boy’s chest. Strand ran over to them, shouting, and managed to grab Romero’s wrist, which Romero was holding at shoulder height, his hand grasping the small knife.
“Are you crazy?” Strand said, pulling at the wrist, struggling, feeling how thin and at the same time how powerful, like a cable alive with electricity, the arm was. “Romero. Drop that knife.”
As though hearing his name had brought him to his senses, Romero let the knife fall, turned and looked up at Strand. “All right,” he said. His voice sounded strange and calm. “It’s over.” He stood up.
Then Strand saw that the boy on the ground, who was sobbing in big convulsive gasps, was Teddy Hitz. There was blood all over Hitz’s face and more blood was pumping from a slash on his cheek.
“Leslie,” he said, as calmly as he could, “will you go in and phone the doctor and then Mr. Babcock and tell them to get over here as quickly as they can. Hitz is hurt.”
“Not enough,” Romero said.
“You shut up,” Strand said, as Leslie ran into the house. “Driver,” he called to the chauffeur, who was standing frozen near the door, still holding the bags, “will you come help me here?” He kneeled next to Hitz, whose sobs were subsiding. “Okay, Hitz,” he said, “he’s dropped the knife.” He took out his handkerchief and put it against the cut on Hitz’s cheek. “Can you hold on to it yourself?”
Hitz nodded, blubbering, and put his hand up to the handkerchief.
“Holy Jesus Christ!�
� The chauffeur had come over to them and was staring down at the bleeding boy. “What goes on here?”
“I taught the sonofabitch a lesson,” Romero said. Now Strand could see that his face, too, was bloody, and he spoke thickly, as though his lips were swollen.
“That’s enough of that, Romero,” Strand said. Then to Hitz, “Do you think you can walk?”
Hitz nodded and sat up. Thank God, Strand thought. Hitz weighed over two hundred pounds and the driver was a small old man and Strand doubted that between them they could have managed to have carried Hitz even as far as the door.
“Madre!” Romero said disgustedly, “a little scratch like that and he makes a fucking massacre out of it.”
“You keep quiet,” Strand said, standing up and taking Hitz’s hand to help pull him to his feet. “And I advise you to start thinking hard. There are a lot of questions you’re going to have to answer.”
“I want a lawyer,” Romero said. “I have a right to a lawyer.”
Even as he got Hitz to put his arm around his shoulders, saying “Just lean on me and walk slowly,” Strand nearly laughed. A lawyer. In Romero’s neighborhood, he realized, ten-year-old children knew all about lawyers.
Romero wheeled around and walked quickly into the house. He had the lights of the common room on and was sitting on a table, swinging his legs, when Strand and the driver got Hitz, staggering dramatically, into the room. “You’d better lie down,” Strand said to Hitz, “and keep your head up.” The handkerchief was now drenched in blood.
He helped Hitz stretch out on the battered couch of the common room and prop his head against the arm. “Mrs. Strand is calling the doctor,” Strand said to him. “I’m sure you’ll be all right.” Then he said to the driver, who was standing in the middle of the room, shaking his head, muttering, over and over, “Goddamn kids, goddamn kids.”
“You can go now, driver. Everything’s under control. You’ve got a long way back to town.” He wanted to get rid of the man. The fewer people involved in this little mess the better. He was glad that Hazen hadn’t made Conroy drive them out. He could imagine the story Conroy would have to tell his employer if he had been there.
“Okay, I’m leaving,” the driver said. “I ain’t got any special desire to be here all night when the police come.”
Police. Strand hadn’t thought of that.
“You might want to hold on to this.” The driver held out the knife. It was a Swiss army knife and the blade had blood on it. “I picked it up outside. If you can, keep my name out of it. I don’t want to get mixed up in no court case if I can help it…having to drive out to Connecticut on my own time every time a lawyer makes an objection. It’s enough trouble driving in New York as it is.”
“Thanks,” Strand said and took the knife. The blade was only about three inches long. It didn’t look like much of a weapon, but Hitz’s blood was still coming through the handkerchief he was holding to his cheek.
“This yours?” he asked Romero as the driver went out.
“Who knows?” Romero said. He grinned malevolently.
Strand looked at him closely for the first time in the neon glare of the common room. Romero’s lips were bruised and swollen. The flesh around his right eye was puffing up and already beginning to discolor and he had to squint to see out of it. “Anybody can buy a knife like that in any hardware store,” Romero said. “They sell them by the million. I’ve had one since I was nine. Never leave home without it, like they say on the television.”
“Listen, Romero,” Strand said quietly, “you’re in trouble and I want to help you. You’ve got to believe that, because I’m afraid you’re going to need all the help you can get. Now tell me what happened. Before the doctor gets here and Mr. Babcock and the police.”
Romero took a deep breath, stopped swinging his legs. “He beat up on me. I went down to his room on a personal matter and he beat the shit out of me. He weighs sixty pounds more than me, so I thought we ought to meet on more equal terms.” He grinned again, his swollen and battered face grotesquely twisted.
“What was the personal matter?”
“Personal,” Romero said.
“He accused me of stealing his money,” Hitz said. His garishly striped pajamas were streaked with blood. “I’m not going to let a little sneaky spic make accusations like that and get away with it.”
“What money?” Strand asked, looking from one boy to the other.
“My money,” Romero said. “And some letters. He broke open my tin box and he took my money and the letters.”
Leslie hurried into the room. “Allen,” she said, “the doctor and Mr. Babcock are coming right over.” She stared at the bloodied boy on the couch, Romero’s disfigured face, the knife still open in Strand’s hand. “Oh, it’s too much,” she said softly. She turned and rushed out of the room, down the hall to their apartment.
“What letters?” Strand demanded again.
“Private letters,” Romero said. “From a girl friend. I don’t like to have my private letters read by anybody. Especially shits like him.”
“I never saw any of your letters,” Hitz said.
“You fucking liar,” Romero said and Strand moved to get between the table on which he was sitting and the couch. But Romero didn’t get off the table. “You made fun of them when I came to your room. You read them, all right. Romeo Romero you called me, you fat shit.”
“Shut up,” said Strand.
“I never saw any letters,” Hitz whined. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“All right,” Strand said, “let’s forget about the letters for the time being. How much money do you say it was, Romero?”
“Three hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
“What?” Strand said, surprised. “How much?”
“Three seventy-five.”
“Where did you get that much money?”
“I want a lawyer,” Romero said.
“I’ll tell you where, Mr. Strand,” Hitz said. “He runs a crap game two or three nights a week in his and Rollins’s room. And a lot of the fellers think he uses loaded dice. Him and Rollins both. A spic and a nigger. That’s the kind of school you’re running and don’t think I’m not going to let everybody know about it. My father’s a big wheel in Washington and he knows every newspaperman down there and plenty in New York…”
“You’d better keep quiet, Hitz,” Strand said, despising the fat, blubbering boy. “Concentrate on keeping your mouth shut and stopping the bleeding.” He sighed as he thought of what the night’s disaster would look like in the newspapers and what it would sound like at the next meeting of the Dunberry Board of Trustees. “Do you and Rollins run a crap game in your room at night?” he asked Romero.
“Leave Rollins out of it,” Romero said. “He’s got nothing to do with it. He just happens to be my roommate.”
“Where is Rollins?”
“Asleep. He doesn’t know anything about what’s happened. He came home tired and went to sleep.”
“You didn’t tell him anything about what happened?”
“If I told him he’d’ve gone down and killed Hitz with his bare hands. And he’d be out on his ass in the morning. And there’d be no college for him, no pro ball. He’s got enough trouble being black. I don’t want to see him wiped out just because he’s my friend.”
“Let me ask you a question, Jesus,” Strand said. “Why do you think Hitz here took your money?”
“If there ever was any money,” Hitz said. “This little greaseball’s been trying to get me since the beginning of the term. I don’t like some of the types they’re letting into this school nowadays and I don’t hide it. This is a free country and I can say what I want…”
“I think you’ll be better off holding your peace, Hitz,” Strand said, trying to sound impartial and patient and knowing he was not succeeding. “Now, Romero, what made you think that it was Hitz who took your money and nobody else?”
“I got private information.”
“Confidential.”
“Who told you?”
“I said confidential,” Romero repeated.
“Did you find the money in Hitz’s room? Or the letters you spoke of?”
“No,” Romero said.
“Sure he didn’t,” Hitz said. “Because I didn’t take anything. If anybody took anything. That man’s crazy, Mr. Strand, he’s got a hate on against the whole world, especially if they’re white. If the teachers here had the guts of a rabbit, even, they’d all say, every one of them, including you, that they wished that this little bastard had never heard of Dunberry.”
“You be careful of your language, fat boy,” Romero said, “or I’ll carve your other cheek and cut your ass for dessert.”
The threat reminded Strand that he was still holding the open bloodstained knife. He closed it and dropped it into the pocket of his overcoat. “Romero,” he said, “you’re not doing yourself any good by talking like…”
The door opened and Dr. Philips and Mr. Babcock came in. Babcock stopped dead as his eyes took in the scene. “Oh, dear,” he said.
The doctor nodded to Strand, looked curiously at Romero, then bent over Hitz and said, “Let’s see what we have here.” He took the soaked handkerchief from Hitz’s face and dropped it on the floor, squinted through his glasses, bending down over Hitz’s head and touching the wounded cheek lightly. “I’d better get him to the infirmary,” he said. “It’s going to take some cleaning and sewing. Quite a bit of sewing.”
“It hurts,” Hitz said, his lower lip quivering.
“Of course it hurts,” the doctor said. “It’s supposed to hurt.” He was a brusque man, competent and quick and not known to coddle adolescents. He opened his bag and took out a big bandage pad and taped it over the wound. It turned red immediately. The doctor took off his coat. “Put this on and get up and I’ll walk you to my car.”
“I don’t know if I can walk…. I lost a lot of…”